


collision course

by Anonymous



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Blood and Violence, Inspired by Fanart, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 17:42:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10576254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He doesn't let go.(a ficlet based on oseltamivir_phosphate/dahliadenoire's art.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oseltamivir_phosphate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oseltamivir_phosphate/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Night Call](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10575888) by [oseltamivir_phosphate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oseltamivir_phosphate/pseuds/oseltamivir_phosphate). 



> i wrote this like three weeks ago and idk know why i'm posting this now.

In these three weeks, there is no sun.

Fluorescent is what Tooru sees; white, at first, the usual kind, but the drugs play with his vision, turns it pink and sometimes _red_.

 _Red_ , when they're being especially violent and (accidentally, purposely) slam his head too hard against tables, or the floor, or against another unfortunate body (but never his face, though—they like it too much). _Red_ , when he squeezes his eyes shut at the amplified glare of overhead lights, the deafening crescendo of music and laughter and lewd noises, whatever poison coursing through him sharpening everything in the worst ways possible. _Red_ , when he manages to scrape by enough awareness to look at himself in the aftermath, all blooming bruises and lacerated skin, blood on his split lips and trickles of it joining the stickiness between his legs.

But he knows it is three weeks. He keeps count. They rarely leave him alone, _there's always another one_ , and what's messing with his senses also wraps any perception of time he has. But beneath the haze, he notices patterns.

He’s a rising star, captain of his middle and high school volleyball teams, _not the brightest_ but already scouted by several professional teams in his university years alone. He’s had more than half his life to hone this skill, learning how to notice the most minute of details. _Three weeks_ , and when they start to complain how he’s stopped fighting back, Tooru tries to not let his disgusted sneer show. (Not this time, at least). Because he knows, and he plans, and right now he’s saving his energy. Fewer punches and getting thrown around just a bit less can make a huge difference over time; they’ve cut the rope that bind his wrists, urging him to struggle. It takes three weeks too long for him to learn, and not in the way they’ve guessed of his submission.

Except. It ends. It ends at _three weeks_. He thinks they might've tried a new drug on him, because he feels _even shittier_ than usual. When he wakes up lying on the dirty ( _dirty_ ) floor, it's to a dichotomous world, everything tinted pinkish-red and mint green, colors opposite of the spectrum. Something classical is playing from the jukebox: Mozart’s _Eine kleine Nachtmusik II. Romance Andante_. He kind of wants to laugh at how skewed his brain’s priorities are to be able to recognize this.

Someone screams, _wails_.

Tooru tips on the precipice between oblivion and pain. Hands attempt to find purchases, push himself up, only to fail. _Everything hurts_ so he keeps lying on his side, keeps on trying to breathe through a throat scraped raw. This is when he finds the floor’s wet with something else other than jizz and drops of his blood. It's blood, a fuck ton of it, _a bloodbath_ splattered over scattered condoms and money and guns and stray syringes. There’s a dead body and a severed hand some distance in front of him.

And when he tries to move again, he feels something soft, something warm, brushing over his lower half. He cranes his neck, straining with the effort of it, and finds a jacket, _mint green_ , draped over him. There's a _squelch_ of blunt impact, like a piece of meat being tenderized, and he skims his sight through the room (because his hearing is also sort of shit right now). He recognizes the man in a white suit (oh, how can he not) at the end of a baseball bat, being pummeled to the ground, screaming, _wailing_. One more smack and he's on the floor, a whimpering mess, and Tooru trails his gaze past the bat and the tan arm holding it steady, to the man looming over another.

He catches Tooru’s eyes. Tooru watches from where his head rests on the floor, everything flipped ninety degrees. The man picks up a dropped cigarette near the bastard's trembling body; it is still lit, burning the faintest embers. He looks at Tooru, and even through the dizzying angle Tooru thinks he's tracing the cigarette burns lining the crook of his neck, his arms and thighs, the few on his calves.

He gives a _tch_ , strangely soft (or perhaps that's just Tooru's messed-up senses), and crouches down in front of the man in the blood-stained white suit. He toys with the cigarette by the fluid twists of his fingers and grabs the other man’s face in an unrelenting grip. The pig squeals. The man just brings the cigarette’s lit tip closer and closer to his right eye, grazing his clenched-shut eyelid, and the bastard screeches.

Tooru watches, transfixed. The man looks at Tooru again, and this time their gazes hold far longer. Tooru breathes, strangely calm, and the man eventually becomes the first to draw his sight away. He gives up a curse, snuffs the cigarette on the man's clothes instead, and finishes him off with two, three more hits to the skull.

Tooru’s managed to sit up when the man reaches him. (It takes twenty-one days to form a habit, and by now his mind registers _another's touch_ as _pain_ , but Tooru only allows himself the faintest flinch.) He kneels down, tugs the (soft, and warm) jacket to settle it over Tooru's shoulders, and helps him up by the gentlest yank of his wrist. He turns around, eyes on the _Exit_ door. Tooru keeps on watching that broad back as they stumble out of this place where there's no sun, moon, or stars.

He doesn't let go.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! (...and maybe there'll be more but nothing sure rn.)
> 
> [tumblr.](http://astersandstuffs.tumblr.com/)


End file.
